COFFIN COVE a gripping murder mystery full of twists (Coffin Cove Mysteries Book 1) by JACKIE ELLIOTT (tharntype novel english .txt) 📗

at wisps of seaweed. He felt something warm trickle down the side of his face, and then the ocean lapped over his feet just before Gerry felt nothing at all.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Inspector Andrew Vega was irritated. He needed space and privacy to do his work. The RCMP detachment had one small conference room, and his team had squeezed in, bumping elbows and tempers as they perched laptops on the corner of shared desks and tried to keep the noise at manageable levels.

The building was old and badly insulated. Brown stains had formed on the white ceiling panels from previous roof leaks, and Vega’s assistant had driven to Nanaimo to purchase an electric heater to counteract the damp. The result was akin to a sauna, especially when they were all gathered for a briefing.

That was another thing that irritated Vega. Day four, heading into day five of the investigation, and he had virtually nothing to report to his superintendent. Logically, he knew that it took time to thoroughly process a crime scene and gather and analyse the data. He and his team had worked twenty hours straight after being notified of Mason’s murder. Vega’s job was to coordinate and guide his specialized team toward a prosecutable conclusion. The time didn’t matter as much as the end result.

Still, the longer it took to get answers, the harder it would be.

Refusing to think about the department budget, he’d requested a police diver. They hadn’t found the murder weapon yet, and he was hoping that the killer had discarded it in the area. A thorough land search turned up nothing, so Vega was betting on the ocean bed around the fish plant. It was a long shot, he knew. But he needed to move this investigation along, before it went stale.

Vega was trying not to feel the pressure. He’d joined IHIT three years ago and had risen through the ranks to inspector and operations officer, overseeing the investigation units.

Every officer recruited to IHIT felt some pressure to get speedy results, he knew that. The Integrated Homicide Investigations Team had been formed in response to the RCMP’s spectacular failure to apprehend one of Canada’s most notorious serial killers, Robert Pickton, before he had butchered nearly fifty women. Vega shivered. He wasn’t even out of college when the Pickton Pig Farm killings were taking place, but still, he felt the responsibility of never allowing such an atrocity to happen again. The motto of the unit was “Justice for Those Who Have Died Unfairly”, and Vega was driven to be worthy of this mission.

His job was to coordinate seven investigative units from the mainland office. He didn’t like to be chained to a desk, so he often visited crime scenes and incident rooms, trying not to interfere or undermine his officers but offering the benefit of experience and making sure they had the resources they needed.

This time, he’d opted to come to Coffin Cove and head up the investigation himself.

Vega was familiar with the town, having worked a homicide here a year ago — a joint operation with the US Drug Enforcement Agency. They’d got a good result, but he’d battled to get information from suspicious residents.

“Coffin Cove is . . . er . . . unique.” He’d struggled to find the right words to describe the tiny isolated fishing town to his superintendent, Sharon Sinclair.

“How so?” she asked. She was a veteran of a major crimes unit. She liked procedure but knew how to be flexible, if the results were worth it.

“The residents are slow to trust outsiders,” Vega said. “They prefer to turn a blind eye, not get involved.”

“Aren’t many communities the same? What makes Coffin Cove different?”

Superintendent Sinclair was hesitant but knew that Vega got results. She also knew that most of their successful investigations relied on help from communities. Somebody usually had a key piece of information that cracked open a case — even if they didn’t know it. It took gentle professional persistence to tease out all the relevant facts of a homicide case.

Vega tried to explain. “They have their own . . . code, I suppose. They dislike authority. It’s isolated, just one road in and out. Back in the seventies, Vietnam draft dodgers hid there, and they still have the same mentality of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. Also, this particular homicide will rake up an unpleasant past.” He explained why Pierre Mason was significant to the town.

“You think maybe Mason’s homicide has something to do with the cold case?”

“Maybe.” Vega shrugged. “I’m keeping an open mind. But even though Mason was cleared, it’s possible he still had enemies in Coffin Cove. Plus, he was a controversial figure for the forestry industry and fishermen. We’ll need to get people who are willing to talk. Otherwise, it will be an uphill battle if we don’t get slam-dunk forensics.”

“OK,” Sinclair said, “I’ll authorize it. But don’t fuck up. I want to retire gracefully in a year or two, with my reputation intact.” She smiled but Vega knew she wasn’t joking.

Vega needed to clear his head. The claustrophobic atmosphere of the detachment was clouding his thinking. They were still waiting on forensics from the old fish plant building, and Vega knew that would take some time. They had one person of interest: Brian McIntosh. Local fishermen told them that McIntosh was likely living in the disused building, and the forensics team spent hours sifting through debris and bagging evidence, even human faeces. The reporter, Andrea Silvers, had handed in the victim’s phone, and they obtained a warrant to search contacts. Vega was satisfied that each team member was working diligently on their assigned tasks. It was his job to pull all the data together and analyse the story it told.

Vega wrinkled his nose. The room smelled of grease and sweat. He wandered round the small room, gathering up sandwich wrappers, discarded coffee cups and a pizza box. In most circumstances, he would